


White Walls (always weep)

by OrangeCruiser



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, M/M, Melancholy, ghost - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:55:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrangeCruiser/pseuds/OrangeCruiser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins doesn't know what should concern him more, the fact that he is, for all intents and purposes, dead- or the man who moves into his apartment not even a week later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When I Try To Fall Asleep

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Just thought I'd pop this in here- it'll be my first story on this site ^^ If you're the kind of person who likes to listen to music while reading, I'd recommend listening to 'Lavender Moon' by Haroula Rose while reading this to get the feel of the mood.

Bilbo Baggins took marginally longer than most to realise that he was dead.

Maybe it was because he went far quicker and less painfully than many had before him. Personally, he blamed the damn faulty light bulb.

On one chilly night Bilbo had risen from his hunched over position at his desk- the next few lines of his novel just refusing to come out- to get a glass of water. Afterwards he counted it as equal parts ironic and annoying that he’d paused at the top of the stairs to observe the blown bulb hanging above him. He really ought to get an electrician out. And yet, something compelled him to shrug, scratch his nose, and continue his descent.

All it had taken was one fumbling misstep in the gloom and Bilbo was sent tumbling head over tail in a flurry of limbs and curses. After what felt an age he came to a stop at the bottom with a sickening crunch- got up, and dusted himself off.

Bilbo had massaged the back of his neck with a rueful smile. That had been a close one. He’d shuffled into the kitchen, poured his desired glass of water, shuffled back to the staircase only to come to a complete standstill when his foot went straight through his own head and onto the carpet below. 

So Bilbo Baggins had sat himself down on his steps, gazing forlornly at the sad little form draped over the lower few, neck bent at an impossible angle. Condensation tracked its way down the edge of the now forgotten glass. 

“Oh, bother.” 

... 

He watches morosely as they drag the last of his furniture from the apartment. His desk gets momentarily jammed in the frame, straining perhaps, to give a last goodbye. Bilbo raises a hand in its passing; many nights had been spent scribbling away on its wooden surface. 

One of the first things Bilbo had learnt about his new ‘state of living’ was that the actual living could not see him. He’d spent the better part of an hour desperately trying to gain the landlords attention when he’d come to collect the rent that weekend. Only giving up when his hand passed straight through the man’s shoulder. Bilbo regretted that he couldn’t comfort the man- no one wants to collect a body instead of money. 

For one part, Bilbo was glad when they’d finally carted his body out of the place, for his sense of smell had not deserted him in his passing and he- it, had been lying there for the better part of a week. 

But still, one cannot help but feel distress at the sight of one’s own corpse being wheeled out of a building. Bilbo had spent most of that day sitting on the stairs, watching an ant trek across the wall, and trying to lose the nauseated feeling in his stomach. 

Bilbo sat on those stairs and watched as the police came in- briefly- and confirmed his death for what it was. A horrible and rather inconvenient accident. He sat on those stairs as his distant relatives rushed in and swept through the place. Sat on those stairs with barely a twitch as his dreaded aunt Lobelia whisked past, arms full with silverware.  
Bilbo sits on those stairs for three impossibly long days, by the end of which he has catalogued every crack in the ceiling, every stain on the carpet and the grains of the white plaster walls. Not once does he grieve for what is lost. 

It’s not till the afternoon of the fourth day that a man throws his door open and Bilbo springs up from his perch with a startled shout. 

 ...

The man is large. Not in the sense of height or girth but in the sense of presence. He fills the house the minute he crosses the threshold and Bilbo shrinks as the hard blue eyes graze where he’s standing on the stairs- forgetting for an instant that he is for all intents and purposes- invisible. It doesn’t stop him from stuffing a knuckle in his mouth, his shout of alarm had rung in his own ears- and after nearly four days of silence he is decidedly disconcerted. 

The piercing gaze finally moves past the stairs and off into the kitchen. The man’s black hair is gathered in a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck, a close cropped beard parallels his angular jaw. Bilbo follows him from a distance as he sweeps into the kitchen, where he shrugs off his leather jacket and leaves it lying carelessly on the floor. Bilbo frowns at that and before he quite knows what he’s doing, he’s picked it up and placed it on the counter. Luckily for him, the man is poking around the kitchen, before sticking his head into the small lounge room.

Quicker than he looks, the man turns on his heel and marches straight through Bilbo on his way to the upper level. The shorter man clutches at the counter, he’s never had anyone just walk through him like that before. It was highly unpleasant, and left the smell of freshly turned earth in his nostrils. Rubbing his arms through his shirt sleeves, Bilbo shivers. 

The man has clomped downstairs again and is standing in the small alcove where the stairs end and the kitchen starts. He cranes his neck to observe the ceiling before nodding to himself. Bilbo feels uneasy; this looked suspiciously like the callous inspection of one looking for a new place. He doesn’t think that he’s ready for some stranger to barge into his- well, Bilbo still thinks of it as his- apartment quite yet. 

The man’s brow furrows as he finds his jacket not on the floor- where he was sure he’d left it- but neatly folded and resting on the countertop. He looks around the kitchen in confusion; even going so far as to open up a few cupboards – Bilbo feels insulted, he’s not that short- before shaking his head with a sigh. 

“Going crazy in your old age Thorin?” his voice is impossibly deep as he shrugs on his jacket.

“Well, that depends on your definition of crazy doesn’t it?” Bilbo is taken aback once more by the sound of his own voice. It’ the first thing he’s said in days.

But the man- Thorin- doesn’t turn his head to where Bilbo is standing in the corner, only gives the apartment one more glance over his shoulder before heading out the door.  
Bilbo’s hand hits his forehead and he feels quite foolish. The small man sighs, running his fingers through his honeyed curls before straightening his vest. For the first time since his death he feels somewhat bitter. He walks to the stairway, considers going up to his room, but shakes his head. He’s not ready for that- there are mirrors on the wardrobe in his room and Bilbo can’t bring himself to gaze at his reflection quite yet. 

He sits on the stairs for another day. It’s the fifteenth of April when the door opens again and Thorin moves permanently into his life. 

 ...

Bilbo learns many things about Thorin Oakenshield in their first week living together. 

He is an architect who seems to be going through a slump period in his work.

He doesn’t seem to live as quite a luxurious life as Bilbo did; the furniture he brings with him hardly fills up the space where Bilbo’s stood.

He has a penchant for leather- his jackets, his shoes, his couch and wallet, the bindings of the large sketchbooks which he carries in himself the first day and sets almost reverently on the countertop. 

He likes his coffee black, no sugar.

He wakes up each morning at six, treads upstairs each night around eleven but doesn’t actually get to sleep until the early hours of the morning. 

He doesn’t listen to music- though he has a stereo hooked up to the TV. 

Every afternoon Thorin will dump his jacket on the floor upon entering the apartment, and every morning he will pick it up from its neatly folded place on the table and shrug it on before leaving. 

Bilbo doesn’t know what he thinks of it exactly but it hasn’t sent the man screaming from the apartment quite yet, so he finds himself becoming bold. He follows Thorin around the rooms, commenting aimlessly, he tells the man about himself, what he did, what his hobbies where, what his family was like.

Thorin carries on through his daily life, not for once guessing that someone else was living it alongside him.

 ...

“I honestly don’t see how you can stand that stuff.” Bilbo’s comment wastes away in the silence as Thorin finishes his third cup of coffee for the day.

He makes it in an expensive looking machine- Bilbo can’t count how many times he’s been roused from his thoughts by its clanking whir. The short man sighs as Thorin wipes his mouth, idly watching the muscles ripple in the man’s shoulders as he does so. Bilbo’s leaning against the refrigerator, its faint droning hum moving through his ears. Not the best spot in the house, but it’s far away enough from Thorin not to warrant any unexpected walk throughs like the first time he’d met the man.

“No wonder you don’t sleep.” Bilbo had preferred tea when he was living.

He had found out to his utter dismay that though his main senses where still intact, he could no longer consume food or drink. He’d experimented on a particularly nice looking slice of blue cheese Thorin had left in the fridge. The taste was still there, but it went nowhere, and gave him a horrible headache. That had been a bad day, he’d found himself sitting on the stairs, glaring at the door until it had opened to Thorin’s welcome face. 

His eyes narrow with disapproval as Thorin discards his mug into the steadily growing pile in the sink. He wants nothing more than to reach out and restore order and cleanliness, but he feels that it would be too strange. The jacket business was bad enough. 

He watches as Thorin drags a hand across his face, the man was in a decidedly foul mood this morning. He’d been up since four, and Bilbo would bet money on him not getting an hour of sleep the night before. Bilbo is about to give another attempt at conversation- dully hoping that maybe this time he’d be heard- when Thorin whirls around and grabs his car keys from the countertop. He picks up his jacket and pauses. Bilbo watches as he turns the folded garment over in his hands, before looking up and fixing Bilbo to the spot with those blue eyes. He sees the mouth begin to shape a word. 

Bilbo freezes, heart in his mouth. Could he have possibly been seen? His shoulders slump as Thorin’s gaze moves past him to roam over the entire kitchen before turning around abruptly and sweeping out the door. The word was not spoken. 

Bilbo rubs a hand over his face in a gesture eerily similar to the one Thorin had used before. 

... 

While Bilbo counts it as lucky that he didn’t die wearing anything ridiculous, he can still wish for a little variety right? Since his passing he’s been stuck in the white button up and green vest combo that he’d worn to the party that fateful evening. It hadn’t been anything truly festive, just a gathering for workmates- Bilbo had worked as an accountant for the better part of seven years. He’d got home that night and lugged it straight up to his room, only pausing to kick his shoes off at the door. 

Curling his slightly hairy toes into the carpet Bilbo readjusts his jeans for what felt like the hundredth time that week. They were roomier around the hips than what he was accustomed to, he was pulling them up constantly. He flicks his hair from his eyes, disgruntled. He was doomed to spending an eternity in ill-fitting jeans.  
It’s the eve of the second week of his death, and Bilbo is perched on the far end of the leather couch. He brings his knees up to his chest, staring idly at the television screen. Thorin mainly watches documentaries and Bilbo has been itching for a good drama show for days. But the remote is on the other side of the room and Bilbo has just sunk into the kind of comfy spot that you can never find again once you move. 

So the documentary drones on in the background and Bilbo lets his eyelids droop lower and lower. He’s discovered that he is capable of falling into a light doze for an hour or two; it’s handy in passing the time while Thorin is at work, but he never dreams. Bilbo misses his dreams terribly. 

He is roused from his stupor as the couch dips slightly at his side and peers through his curls to see Thorin sitting cross legged beside him in nothing but his jeans. Bilbo squeaks in surprise, scrambling upright until he’s half sitting on the couch and half on the arm rest. Though he is no longer physically capable of a blush, his cheeks itch unpleasantly. He finally manages to tear his eyes from the hairy, well defined chest to see that Thorin has one of his leather bound sketchbooks in his lap and is chewing thoughtfully on the end of a pencil. 

Curiosity banishes Bilbo’s embarrassment and he finds himself leaning forwards, he’s never seen Thorin do anything with his sketchbooks before. All his work he did outside of the apartment, and subsequently Bilbo’s gaze. He watches as Thorin flicks through the book to a clean page and Bilbo can catch glimpses of other drawings as he goes. The documentary plays forgotten in the background, all of Bilbo’s attention is focused on Thorin as he watches him put pencil to paper. 

Lines begin to form under Bilbo’s gaze. Starting from the centre of the page- thin ones, the bare skeleton of something greater. He watches as shapes form and lines darken, curving here, arching there. Poetry, it could be, a novel or a song. Bilbo watches as the lead of the pencil moulds with the paper. It’s not until Thorin is deepening the curves that Bilbo realises he is looking at a giant reptilian eye. The pupil of which seems to be fixated on him. Slightly unnerved, Bilbo glances for the first time at his roommates face, and is struck by what he sees.

Thorin’s neck is bent over his work, and his hair is out of its binding, flowing down and over his shoulders, a black waterfall. He’s chewing his lip slightly, his forehead and the sharp slope of his nose illuminated by the televisions glow. Bilbo is certain that if ice could catch fire, it would be the colour of Thorin’s eyes right now and he suddenly feels ashamed. He is watching something so intimate, so personal, something that Bilbo thinks Thorin would never have shared if they’d by chance met whilst Bilbo was still alive. But he can’t tear his gaze from Thorin- or his work. His gaze flicks back to the image and he sighs, softly, ever so softly.

He isn’t expecting Thorin to jerk his head upwards, the action being so sharp that Bilbo thinks it would have knocked his clean off his shoulders had he been more solid. As it was, Bilbo was experiencing the unpleasant feeling that he had the first time he’d met Thorin and the man had walked straight through him. He lurches backwards, the taste of earth in his mouth. Thorin is gazing slightly to Bilbo’s left, hands gripping the sketchbook tight.

“Hello?” His voice is steady- far more steady than Bilbo’s would have been if in his position.

Some nights after Bilbo would wonder what could have happened if he’d answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehehehe, this was initially meant to be more along the lines of a twoshot, but it will probably end up somewhere closer to a three or four chapter story. I just randomly got the idea stuck in my head and it had to come out ^^ I'm going for a slightly melancholy feel here- sorry if it makes the characters a bit wonky. Thorin will talk a bit more in later chapters too- silly sullen dwarf. Hope you enjoy ^^


	2. Mother Remember The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He told himself he was just a viewer of their lives- that didn't mean it hurt any less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay but I had about half a chapter typed out before I realised it was in the completely wrong mood so I had to start again ^^
> 
> Thanks you guys so much for reading this, I really wasn't expecting such a reception! <3
> 
> The theme for this chapter (and the song that is mentioned) is Upward Over the Mountain by Iron and Wine.

# Mother (remember the night)

On the day that the brothers barge into the apartment Bilbo discovers that Thorin actually has the ability to laugh.

Bilbo twitches as his front door is opened with much more vigour than he has become accustomed to.

“Uncle? Hey Uncle!” 

He jerks up from his seat on the stairs, and for a second- is distracted by the fact that he simply can’t remember how he got there. The stairs, always the spot he would return to. With a frown, Bilbo cranes his head to glimpse at who had rushed into the apartment like it was their second home. He wasn’t aware that Thorin had family he was close with- wasn’t aware that Thorin socialised with anyone really, the man seemed so recluse. 

Yet there they are, blonde and brunette, and when they sling their satchels from their shoulders and dump them on the ground without a second glance Bilbo has no question as to who they’re related to. 

They have young faces, faces untouched by the relative hardships of life. Bilbo watches as they jostle with one another on their way through the kitchen, and he feels lighter. Here was energy, here was life- the kind of simplistic joy to be alive that Bilbo has not witnessed since the last time he held his nephew in his arms. 

“How did you two get in here?” There was Thorin’s affectionate growl and Bilbo dithers for a second, uncertain as to whether he should venture downstairs or not, watching his roommate draw was one thing, watching him with his family was completely different.

Bilbo’s ears catch “Everyone knows where you keep your spare key Uncle.” And a sharp yelp which quickly dissolves into shared laughter, presiding over which is a deep baritone chuckle that Bilbo wants to hear again, and again and again.

Damn his curiosity.

…

Over the duration of the next few weeks Fili and Kili become regular visitors. They stop by after their classes in the nearby city. They stop by before classes. Sometimes they’ll even stop by when Thorin is at work and Bilbo is certain that they’re skipping classes- not that he minds. 

They raid the fridge; they drape themselves over the couch and flick through all the interesting channels that Thorin never touches. They laugh and smile and joke. They make Thorin laugh and smile and joke. 

They bring music back into an apartment that has been devoid of it for far too long.

And Bilbo loves them for it. 

They cart in piles of CD’s and stuff them into Thorin’s grade A sound system. The music reverberates through the lounge room, the kitchen, the floor boards, through Bilbo as he sits and listens. What Bilbo appreciates most, is that no matter where he sits in the apartment it will reach his ears. Some songs Bilbo had loved, most he’s never heard before. He devours them all.

And though Thorin may roll his eyes and growl at them to turn the volume down, he never turns the music off.

And Bilbo could love him for that too. 

…

Bilbo is curled up on the couch, just managing to get interested in a documentary about sharks- Thorin has been leaving the television on more often of late, Bilbo wonders about the electric bill- but then it’s not really his problem anymore.

There is the familiar tread of two sets of shoes- red converse for one, blue for the other- and the chatter of conversation. He looks up from the perpetually blue screen and watches as Kili charges into the room.

“-not even kidding, this is one of the best things you’ll have heard in a while.” Bilbo watches curiously as the brunette digs around in his satchel, eyes bright.

“I’ve been wondering how long it’s going to take for uncle to finally get sick of us.” Fili leans against the couch, shirt sleeves pushed past his elbows as he crosses his arms, his tone amused. 

“Bah, he’s far too soft,” Kili shoots his brother a grin, finally unearthing a CD from his bag, “Besides; I get the feeling that he was quite lonely before Ma shipped us here.” 

Fili just hums in reply, before slouching down into the couch beside Bilbo, who is watching the brothers contemplatively. The two were so close with their uncle that it gave him cause to wonder if their actual father wasn’t around much, or worse. Bilbo feels slightly guilty that he is glad of that fact- for he has never seen Thorin so content than in the past month. 

Kili straightens up and practically hops back to the couch. He flops himself down, half upon his brother and half upon Bilbo, who thinks he really needs to work on his reflexes- because the amount of times he’s been sat on is just getting ridiculous. But while Bilbo has become slightly accustomed to the every now and then run through with Thorin- Kili is an entirely new person, and Bilbo’s fingers curl into the leather of the couch.

Where Thorin is the feeling of fresh earth sifting through his fingers- the smell of the dark- Kili is the wind. For a painfully brief instant Bilbo is flying, blood rushing in his ears, the caress of the breeze- and then he’s grounded, back on the couch with the unpleasant feeling of Kili’s legs through his middle. He rights himself with in a huff and Kili gives an explosive sneeze.

“Thanks for that.” Fili mutters wryly but Kili just shoves him playfully and turns the stereo on.

Bilbo is wondering whether he should just climb upstairs and hole himself up in Thorin’s room with one of the man’s books, but the song has already started. He sits down rather suddenly on the ground when the familiar chords of a guitar relatively jump from the speakers and push themselves into his ears. It would have been a soft sad tune- if not for the fact that Thorin seemed to have procured himself one of the highest quality systems on the market. 

So the song is loud, louder than Bilbo’s thoughts, louder than Fili’s joking call of ‘they’d better not blow Thorin’s speakers’ and Kili’s subsequent ‘don’t even joke Fili’. And Bilbo is off, letting the soft rumbling lyrics wrap around his being. For a while he forgets- because there’s something about this one song that’s working for him- he forgets where he is, he forgets the circumstances.

For approximately five minutes Bilbo forgets that he is no longer alive. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind he becomes aware of a commotion at the door, aware that the commotion abruptly ceases. And Bilbo flinches because Kili is pausing the song and when he looks up to glare reproachfully at Thorin’s nephew he gets completely sidelined because Thorin himself is standing in the doorway with shopping bags on his arms and a gaze fixed utterly and entirely on Bilbo. 

For a fair while Bilbo sits frozen because Thorin is there and Thorin is staring straight at him and there’s no way that this could be another accident because Bilbo hasn’t opened his mouth since he sat down to watch sharks. 

“Uncle?” it’s Fili’s voice that causes Thorin to jump and Bilbo to realise the gravity of the situation.

“I…” and Bilbo can see the concern in Fili’s gaze because Thorin is never at a loss for words.

“…Nothing,” under the critical gaze of his nephews Thorin collects himself, “make yourselves useful and help me carry this lot in.” 

And Bilbo sits, stuck in place as Fili and Kili help their uncle carry in the groceries and say their goodbyes, his gaze locked upon the spot where Thorin had been standing. There is an abrupt cease of activity in the kitchen and Bilbo stands up so suddenly that he thinks he might have pulled something. There is still time, he can still hide- Thorin can blame it on tiredness or something because Bilbo really doesn’t want to face him right now. 

After all, what could he say? Hey there, I snapped my neck on those stairs two months ago and I’ve been here the whole time watching over you like some kind of creepy serial killer, I hope we can just go on with our lives as usual now. Because that was impossible, people just didn’t act like that. Bilbo holds his head in his hands with a groan because Thorin is going to find him and see him and either think that he’s going crazy or that the house is possessed or something and Thorin is going to leave him and oh it’s not going to be ok because what if Bilbo gets some creepy biker dude or a bunch of drugged up teens this time and-

“Please tell me this isn’t happening again.” There is a step on the floorboards and Bilbo jerks his head up. 

Thorin is standing barely a foot away from him and he has a highly unexpected look on his face. Bilbo’s brows pull down because something isn’t quite right about Thorin’s sentence and the utterly resigned look on the man’s face has completely thrown his thoughts off the tracks. 

“Again?!” And Bilbo didn’t mean for it to sound quite like a yelp but that’s what it was. 

At his word, Thorin’s face falls and he slumps into the couch, what looks to be a bottle of rum clutched in his hands. Completely bamboozled by his behaviour, Bilbo stands and watches, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Thorin takes a swig and Bilbo notices that he still has his jacket on and the cracked leather matches that of the couch so horribly that for a second Bilbo almost snorts. 

“I should’ve known the minute I stepped into the place,” Thorin mutters, and Bilbo notices that the bottle is already half empty and there’s definitely a tint of pink on Thorin’s cheeks that isn’t usually there. “Your landlord failed to mention that the previous owner had died in the apartment.” And the man has a reproachful tone to his voice that makes Bilbo feel as though he’s blaming him, and the short man frowns.

“You can imagine that I wasn’t so chuffed about it either.” And while one part of Bilbo is telling him to shut up and that Thorin was obviously half tanked the other half is ecstatic because he’s having a conversation that doesn’t involve Thorin running screaming from the apartment. 

“How did it happen?” and though Bilbo notices there is no ‘if you don’t mind me asking’ tacked onto the end of the question he finds himself telling Thorin anyway. 

“I fell down the stairs…I’m sorry?” Bilbo cuts away his own sentence because Thorin is nodding his head and though Bilbo knew his roommate was strange he didn’t think it was quite up to this extreme.

“Very common that one.” Thorin mutters sagely before taking another drink, and Bilbo has finally had enough of this.

“Sorry but what,” somewhere Bilbo knows that he’s apologising for no real reason but dammit he’s flustered because of all the scenarios he’s played out in his head of meeting Thorin none of them involved the man getting drunk on the couch and having a nice chat, “What are you on about? Of the two of us, you’re the one acting all weird and you’re not even the- the ghost!” 

And while Bilbo is frustrated, it’s the first time that he’s gone anywhere near that word since the accident and he finds himself slumping on the couch next to Thorin, shaken. This is the most emotion he’s shown in what feels like an age. 

“It started when I first moved out from home.” at this point Bilbo is aware that Thorin is very drunk but the small man just flicks something from his waistcoat and pulls his legs up- Thorin had had some degree of awareness about Bilbo since the first time he’d picked up the man’s jacket and placed it on the table. If there are repercussions, he’ll deal with them when Thorin is sober.

“I rented an apartment with friends and for a while everything was great. We went to classes, played football on weekends. Dwalin even bought a dog. But then it started- just small things at first. A flicker in the corner of my eye, a voice, objects moving.” Thorin took a large swig, and even from his perch on the edge of the couch Bilbo can smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Then one night I woke to a woman standing over my bed and screamed the house down,” Thorin rests his elbows on his knees, staring at the wall as though he intended to burn through it with the power of his gaze alone, “I moved out not a week later, but they followed, they always followed. House to house- until now, until you.” 

Those blue eyes are turned on Bilbo and the smaller man shrinks away but Thorin has twisted his entire body around to face him now.

“Why?” and the man nearly looks furious, hair messy, chest heaving. “I thought I’d outgrown them or something. But then there’s you, and you aren’t like them. You aren’t….malignant.” 

Well Bilbo didn’t think he was a poltergeist or anything, but from the haunted look in Thorin’s eyes he gets the feeling that those other ghosts weren’t as…placid as he is. 

“I- I don’t know. I don’t understand any of this. All I know is that I fell down those stairs and it was sudden and it was painless,” Bilbo keeps Thorin’s gaze, “I fell down those stairs and part of me got back up and I can’t for the life of me think why.” 

And though Thorin is a far cry from his usual self, some kind of mutual understanding is reached. The man drags a hand across his face before gathering the empty bottle and standing up. Bilbo feels quite lost as he remains on the couch. Thorin pauses at the door.

“Where you there on the couch that night, when I was drawing?” his voice is kept at a guarded monotone.

“Yes.” Bilbo is proud that his voice does not waver.

“And are you the one who’s picked my jacket up each and every afternoon since I moved in?” 

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” 

That night Bilbo doesn’t even reach the stairs.

…

Thorin learns many things about Bilbo Baggins in their first ‘official’ week of living together.

He’d been stuck in a dead end job that he’d never loved. Bilbo had wanted to be a writer, but that dream had followed his body out the door of the apartment. 

Bilbo will gladly talk for hours about his beloved nephew, and Thorin smiles at that, because he knows the feeling.

He greatly misses his food, so Thorin takes care not to eat directly in front of him.

He’d enjoyed the simple pleasures of life when he’d been able to but his one regret was never exactly doing anything momentous, never going on a big journey.  
He misses his weekly visits to the DVD store, so Thorin sets out willingly with a list and they stay up watching them together when Bilbo doesn’t think he can sleep and Thorin knows he can’t.

Never once does he find Bilbo grieving, or outwardly bitter, and Thorin admires the man so much for that- because he knows that if it were him in his place, he would have gone corrupt long ago. 

And every afternoon, Thorin will be greeted at the door with a shy smile and duck of the head, and he will watch those golden curls bob and twist and finds himself handing his jacket to the small man instead of dumping it on the floor.

Soon enough, Thorin begins to look forwards to opening his door. 

The pair live on, in their twisted little apartment- a ghost and a man- and everything is fine for a few months.

Until there’s one night when Thorin doesn’t open that door at all.

At first Bilbo thinks he’s just late home from work, but as the hours tick over, his heart sinks lower. A sick feeling rises in his chest.

His feet drag himself to the stairs, and as he sits upon the carpet it’s for the first time in months.

Bilbo sits on the stairs and doesn’t move until two days pass and the door opens again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lot's more talking in this chapter, hope it didn't ruin it I'm rather terrible at dialogue.


	3. It No Longer Thrives In The Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually the biggest dipshit. This chapter was a mighty long time coming but this is the first break I've had from school in a while. Yeah school is my only excuse here, but final years are tough. I'm so sorry for the wait, I know some of you have been looking forward to this. But thank you all so much for the comments and kudos, they got me through it ^^
> 
> Re-wrote this one three times.
> 
> This chapters music is 'Ghostly Arms' by Zoo Animal ^^

Blood is the first thing that comes to mind. The smell of it, the stains on the parts of Thorin’s shirt that aren’t covered by his jacket. Desperately, his eyes roam over Thorin’s tall form but the patches of red are irregular. It is not his blood. He tries to catch sight of the man’s face, but the thick waterfall of hair shields it from his gaze.  
Even from his place on the stairs Bilbo can see Thorin’s hands shake.

He stands up, and has to put a palm against the wall to support himself. Vaguely Bilbo is aware that his own hands are trembling. Pressing his knuckles into the white plaster doesn’t help. He opens his mouth and curses his luck because for once the words won’t come. The questions shrivel back into his mind. 

Then Thorin is moving and Bilbo isn’t getting out of the way quick enough and when the man surges through him forcefully on his way upstairs Bilbo feels it. There is no earth here. A white hot rage sweeps through the small man in an instant. Writhing and boiling. The echoing screech of tires thrums through his mind and he is sitting crumpled on the step once more. His head falls forward on his knees on its own volition and Bilbo grits his teeth because the shakes are taking over now and he can’t seem to stand back up.   
Bilbo doesn’t care if he has to die ten more times over but he never wants to feel such things again. 

Dimly he feels the vibrations of Thorin’s steps as he rushes back down the stairs but he can’t lift his head to look so he has only the sound of the door slamming to tell him that he is alone once more. 

 

…

 

It takes Bilbo longer than he likes to recover from the incident. Idly, he marvels at just how much Thorin affects him, even in this state. He wonders – tries not to, but he does wonder – what would have happened had they met while he’d still been alive. Wonders, because that’s all he can do. 

The small man paces the house, restless now that he knows Thorin is alive but just not there. Television doesn’t work, neither does music. He even rearranges the kitchen. Twice. He feels as though he is in school once more, awaiting the bell to go to lunch – lunch because, well he’d always had a soft spot for food hadn’t he? 

At nights he traipses up to his old room – now Thorin’s – and buries himself face first in the covers. Through it all, Bilbo feels strange, there’s a tugging in his chest that hadn’t been present since his teen years. A remorse, even. Certainly, since Thorin had moved in, Bilbo’s emotions have been running rife. The sudden transition from alive to dead had done very little to his overall personality – Bilbo had been living as a shell for years. And now there’s this. Something has changed, something good. Thorin would come back home and it would be okay. 

It’d be okay. 

He retreats into the darkness, only to be woken by the screech of tires in his head in the early hours of the morning.

He hauls himself from Thorin’s bed and repeats the process from the start. 

It goes on for three days.

 

…

 

He isn’t sure what he feels when his eyes finally lock with Thorin’s again. 

It’s late at night when the man stumbles into the house again. And Bilbo’s reprimands wither on his tongue because one thing that he has never seen Thorin do is stumble. Something passes between them, something that Thorin is not yet ready to talk about and Bilbo isn’t sure he wants to face. He watches as a shadow passes over Thorin’s eyes, the man seems about to open his mouth but Bilbo cuts in.

“We don’t have to talk about it. Just please – please don’t –” Bilbo watches that gaunt face, there is a sharpness to Thorin that was not present before. “Don’t leave again.”  
And Bilbo has to choke down the ‘me’. 

Thorin nods, though Bilbo feels the hollowness to the gesture. 

 

…

 

In the end Bilbo finds out through other ways. 

There are rushed conversations on the telephone, family members constantly drop in and Thorin is – without fail – absent for an hour each night. But he always comes home, so Bilbo does not press, does not pry where unwanted. It hurts, sometimes, just the not knowing part. But he brushes the feeling off, Thorin is not ready yet, but Bilbo sits back and puts the puzzle together on his own. 

A family member had been hospitalised and Thorin had a hand in putting them there. 

 

…

 

The first is seen in the phone calls, the actions that Thorin takes. The visitors and the fact that each time Thorin comes home he’s looking a bit more haggard than the last. He leaves during the closest hospital’s visiting hours – a fact that Bilbo is sure of because when his nephew was born he’d been stopping in every day. 

It’s seen in the Styrofoam cups that he finds littering the counters, shoved between the couch cushions. Most of them smell of coffee but a few smell of alcohol and that’s worrying. 

The last is seen in Thorin himself. A shadow of the man he was walks through the house. He’s gets thinner, cheekbones showing up in harsh profile on his face. Guilt is eating away at the man’s insides. It works with ruthless efficiency and Bilbo finds himself wanting to fight the man’s inner demons for him. 

He helps wherever he can. Cleans up around the house when the family members have stopped pouring in and Thorin retires to his room. Tries to put out an air of general calm, tries to soothe. Because after all, he can’t do much else can he? Bitterly Bilbo wonders how different the situation would be if he were alive, bumped into Thorin in the street perhaps. At least he could have touched the man. 

Every night around eleven Thorin practically falls down the stairs and into the lounge room. Bilbo watches as the man puts his head in his hands, seeking to escape the ghosts of whatever plagued his dreams. He covers him with a blanket when he practically passes out from sleep deprivation. 

Through it all they barely converse. 

 

…

 

The day arrives too soon. 

It’s a Thursday, of what month Bilbo is not certain because time has been slipping, falling through his fingers. He all but bolts down the stairs as the door swings shut. Then he stops, stops dead because it is not Thorin standing on the welcome mat. It is a shell. Too long a time is taken for Thorin to lift his head and that’s when Bilbo knows it has happened. The hospital patient has passed. 

Bilbo looks, searches through the blue, but there’s no sign of recognition. Without thinking the short man steps forwards, tries to grab Thorin’s wrist and pull him upstairs. He fights the urge to scream when his hand passes straight through because of course this wouldn’t bloody work would it? But Thorin shifts slightly and as Bilbo steps backwards up the stairs he follows. 

They collapse together on the bed, Thorin shaking, eyes closed tightly. Bilbo is anxious. He sits cross legged at Thorin’s side as the man lies flat on his back. The trembles judder through the bed clothes so Bilbo places a hand on – or rather through, Thorin’s shoulder. The man stills somewhat and once again Bilbo tries to exude calm. 

Thorin opens his eyes and stares blankly at the ceiling. 

“He was my grandfather.” 

Bilbo jumps at the sudden words, but they are wooden – they fall flat and slink under floorboards. Ashamed perhaps, at the way in which they were uttered. He keeps silent, lets Thorin talk. His immaterial fingers flex, drawing further into the shoulder. For a twisted second, Bilbo imagines he is tightening upon Thorin’s bones, holding his foundations together. 

“I was driving.” And that is all Bilbo knows Thorin is going to get out tonight. 

At the end of the sentence Thorin’s voice cracks. Cracks deeply, the kind of lacerations that shatter not only the voice but the mind. Bilbo brings his other arm round as Thorin curls in and though he is not so much holding the man as sinking into him he feels at peace.

He lies and lets Thorin’s anguish rock through them both. Takes Thorin’s pain and halves it, stores it deep inside himself. Somewhere it will never touch them again. Wraps himself around Thorin’s mind and pushes the delicate pieces together once more. 

 

…

 

Bilbo supposes that drifting off into one of his sleep states while with Thorin is what caused this. But as the short man turns slowly on the spot, he wonders if the after effects of being dead have finally caught up with him. Either way, this is the first dream he’s had in months. 

He’s standing on the staircase. The wooden skeleton of the apartment block towers around him but there are no floors, no walls. Only the stairs, suspended in the middle of oblivion. His toes curl into the threadbare carpet and Bilbo feels shock. His sense of touch has been restored to normal, perhaps even intensified. Where he would normally feel a faint softness, his toes scrape against the floor underneath. Hand shaking, Bilbo brings it up to his chest. The action a hopeful question.

A heartbeat answers. 

It tears through his chest, races through his veins. Truly trembling now, Bilbo brings his fingers to his neck. A pulse thrums there too, strong. Perhaps too strong because as Bilbo throws back his head to laugh it roars through his ears, just borderline uncomfortable. 

“Bilbo?” 

And when Bilbo turns towards the voice the house solidifies around him again. Thorin stands at the top of the stairs and Bilbo practically trips up them to clutch at the man’s arm. Flesh meets flesh and Bilbo can feel the heat through his fingers as they curl around Thorin’s wrist.

“I can feel you.” Disbelief colours Bilbo’s voice, because it’s true. He can touch not only Thorin’s skin, but underneath that, what makes the man himself. He feels a hand clasp his shoulder. The fingers bite deep.

“It seems so.” And the voice is back to the rough grumble that it was when the man first moved in. 

When Bilbo brings his head up from where he’s been thoroughly studying Thorin’s neck, all he gets is the scratch of beard on his cheek as warning before he’s pulled up to the other man’s lips. The only word to describe the action is fierce. Bilbo clutches at Thorin’s shirt, wanting to get all he can now because something inside him knows that this is not permanent. Thorin’s lips curl into a smile against his. Their bodies press flush together until Bilbo can feel their hearts in tandem. When they break away Thorin presses his forehead to Bilbo’s as they both breathe erratically. His eyes are blue wildfire. But then he is breaking the contact and staring over Bilbo’s shoulder down the steps. The fire flares. 

“Thorin?” Bilbo’s breath hitches as he turns also, he releases his grip on Thorin’s wrist from shock – but the man twists his own ‘til he is holding Bilbo’s. 

They stand at the bottom of the stairs. A sickening parallel to Bilbo and Thorin at the top. One smaller man, dressed in a horribly familiar vest and slacks. Eyes wide and staring, their solid whites seemed to glow fitfully. And the neck – oh the neck. Bilbo brings his free hand to his own, eyes roaming the impossible angle at which the other’s is bent. Thorin’s breaths deepen behind him and Bilbo looks at the figure standing behind the twisted neck. 

This one is tall, almost forebodingly so. His skin is grey, blue eyes sunken. The planes of his face sharp beneath his beard. Mouth bared in a snarling rictus. When Bilbo looks down he sees the pair’s hands conjoined.

“It’s us.” He isn’t sure if he said it, or Thorin.

The man who broke his neck and got back up again and the man eaten alive by his own guilt.

“No.” And this time it’s Thorin’s rumble. “It’s what we could be.” 

Bilbo turns into Thorin’s shoulder, buries his face in his neck. Thorin’s arms wrap around him and they both fall as the stairs give way and the dream caves in. 

 

…

 

Bilbo wakes with a jerk and a hollowness in his chest. His hand confirms the truth. No heart beats in this world. He feels the loss deeper than he should. The world seems grey and muted compared to the vibrancy of the dream. 

He turns to Thorin from where they have rolled apart. The man’s eyes are wide open, staring at the ceiling once more and Bilbo knows that he experienced the dream as well. The clock on the bedside table says its early morning but Bilbo would be content to sit here for days on end. It feels like hours, days even, before one of them talks. 

“Am I insane?” Thorin’s voice is raw.

“Maybe.” Bilbo says softly. “But then what am I?”

And when Thorin turns his head and locks his eyes with Bilbo’s gaze, the blue fire is back. 

Bilbo lets it consume him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it, this chapter is the basic ending of the central story line. I have a things for ambiguous endings as I'd like for you guys to interpret yourselves what happened ^^ A short epilogue may come along to tie things up and say how they continued on. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading!


	4. I've Seen The End, I've Lost The War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I watched you crawl into my bed_  
>  With curses spilling from your head  
> You said "We're just the walking dead"  
> So I pulled the trigger and we floated off 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we go, the epilogue I said might be coming along. I think I've discovered my latent neck kink while writing this one.
> 
> Chapter music is 'Wrapped in Piano Strings' by Radical Face

Bilbo sits on his lone spire and watches the house build itself around him. The fixtures a dark inky black, part skeleton and part skin. Everything pristine and everything in its place. Wind stirs his curls as he breathes out; let’s himself float away in the calm and the solitude. His spire takes shape beneath him, the steps descending, Bilbo perched at the top.

The short man closes his eyes, relishes the moment. Anticipation for what’s to come. For once his mind feels rooted, he is not slipping, no longer wasting away. An arm curls around his middle.

Bilbo smiles. 

When he cranes back and opens his eyes two familiar pools of blue threaten to drown him but Bilbo long outgrew the urge to descend too far- because otherwise he’d be gone wouldn’t he? 

“Always the stairs.” Thorin’s voice claws itself through Bilbo’s system, sinks its fingers into the carpet and anchors him there. 

Bilbo grins, brushes his lips against Thorin’s jaw. This is the moment he’s been waiting for. 

“Can’t you take us anyplace else?” Thorin sounds grumpy, underneath a running petulance that Bilbo had been delighted to discover. 

“Not very wise to insult the only place we can meet don’t you think?” Bilbo says teasingly. 

He pushes himself away in mock anger. Thorin’s face falls and he follows Bilbo’s path, intent on catching his prize again. 

“Besides, this is home.” Bilbo takes the stairs two at a time, feeling eerily bubbly. “I don’t think I’d want to be anywhere else.” 

He hears Thorin exhale in exasperation behind him, has only a second more of freedom before the arm snags him around the waist again. He’s pulled into Thorin’s warm chest as the man sits on the bottom step. A nose is buried in the crook of his neck and Bilbo wriggles reflexively, laughter tastes sweet on his tongue. 

“Home.” The word tickles across his chest, Thorin seems almost contemplative. 

Bilbo waits anxiously.

“Suppose it’ll have to do.” 

Bilbo can feel the man grin. 

 

…

 

Bilbo sits on his lone spire and watches the house build itself around him. The lines are a dark sluggish black, twisted features, the hint of a madman in each. No solitude comes to him, just a relentless itch at the back of his neck. They’re watching. Bilbo grits his teeth.

Grits his teeth because there are some days when his spire ends up being the bottom step rather than the top. 

They’re watching. 

The minute the roof assembles above him he is up and gone. The most terrifying seconds, these are- the trip from the bottom of the stairs to the top. All he knows for certain is to never look behind him. Not until he’s reached the relative safety of the top landing. Even then, the glance is taken in swift apprehension, not wanting to meet the horrors waiting below. Two pairs of pale eyes stare back. 

There are some days when Thorin’s guilt taps the man on the shoulder and Bilbo feels like he’s just taken the fall all over again and the two shades appear at the bottom of the stairs. 

They’re watching. 

When Thorin’s solid mass appears from behind him Bilbo turns his head inwards and collapses on the familiar chest. 

 

…

 

Then there are the days when Bilbo finds someone else sitting on the spire. 

He opens his eyes to find the house already built. This time round it has a rustic quality, the edges fraying off like lead scratches from a pencil. It looks so familiar, just like the sketches littering Thorin’s books. The short man turns around, grin in place. 

Thorin stands up from his perch on the stairs and Bilbo is nearly washed away by the emotion. A fierce joy, it wraps around him- prowls like a wolf and keeps all the fear, all Bilbo’s morose tendencies away. The man looks almost bashful as he pads up, hair loose, a black mane cascading around his shoulders. 

“You’re getting better.” Bilbo says, testing the railing.

It did not collapse like last time. That had been a fun event, Bilbo pitching forwards into the lounge room to Thorin’s horrified shout. 

“Jealous?” Thorin teases and Bilbo shoots him a dry look.

“Of course not you idiot.” But then the wry twist of his mouth is curling upwards, coaxed by Thorin’s lips. 

The man’s scruff tickles Bilbo’s bare cheeks; they will remain so for… however long this whole thing lasts. All thoughts of eternity are chased away as the kiss deepens- the barest hint of teeth. Before he quite catches up with the situation Thorin has hoisted Bilbo up and he reflexively wraps his legs round the man’s waist. They make their way through the door to the bedroom, where Bilbo is chucked unceremoniously on the bed. 

“Graceful.” he snorts but then Thorin is nipping at his collarbone and all other complaints cut off in a yelp. 

Thorin looms over him, eyes on fire. Bilbo has never felt so safe. He sees the question in those eyes and finally reaches up, pushes their foreheads together and breathes out. The other man’s body shudders against his, till Bilbo is veritably pinned to the mattress. They meld together, a joining of minds. There are times when it is as a fever, roiling hot in its desperation, other times peaceful and slovenly, almost lazy. Right now it is simple passion that drives the need. 

Bilbo is aware of Thorin clutching at him as he sinks back into the calm earth of the man’s innermost designs. A nose pushes into his neck so he twists, catches Thorin’s eyes with his own. They pause for a while, captured in one another. Content. 

“So this is insanity.” Thorin looks wild, so very wild as he says the words. 

Bilbo has to look away.

“Would you believe, that I’m glad I fell down those bloody stairs?” he mumbles after a while. 

A firm hand forces his gaze back. 

“Would you call me a sadist if I said I’m glad you did too?” Gentle, now so gentle.

When Bilbo stops laughing he runs kisses along Thorin’s chin and reflects on how he feels so much more emotion dead than he ever had alive. Thorin growls and attacks Bilbo’s neck once more until the man initiates another join.

They exist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we have it! This is the first chapter length story I've ever finished, it feels... nice. Thank you all so, so, so much for the comments and kudos, it kept me going, really. 
> 
> Shout out to WizardScrub for being an awesome beta, though this chapter will be a surprise to them also :3 Shhh, you can pick it apart later. 
> 
> I'll probably be putting my focus on another fandom for a while now, though once the next Hobbit movie rolls around I'll probably get dragged right back in :D 
> 
> For what it's worth here's that Tumblr thing: http://a-sherlock-sandwich.tumblr.com/


End file.
